


Here With You

by buckybarnesplumwhore



Category: Puncture (2011)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, all my stories always have a black reader insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27769294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybarnesplumwhore/pseuds/buckybarnesplumwhore
Summary: The weight of drugs can break any relationships, but your love for him was greater.
Relationships: Mike Weiss & Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Here With You

**Author's Note:**

> This is ½ of my submissions for tumblr blog angrybirdcr ‘s 200 follower challenge! I choose to write for Chris Evan’s character Mike Weiss. Great underrated film!  
> Chosen prompts:  
> 10\. “Do you know how it feels to wish for death every day?”  
> 12\. “Because I couldn’t bear the idea of you choosing to stay with me out of pity or guilt.”  
> DO NOT REPOST MY WORKS!  
> Follow my tumblr: Buckybarnesplumwhore

This wasn’t new -- this feeling of dread --- awaiting for the shit-storm of pain, and the rainfall of tears. A slow, and yet tender feeling like a blossoming bruise. The inside of your cavity feels shattered by every inhale of a strained wheeze.

Cloudiness floats around your skull like a haze, but you move on auto-pilot --- your feet move by the surge of determination, and commitment; a bitter-sweet twinge weighs on your tongue to witness someone you love fall apart at the seams.

It’s 3 in the morning now, the moon beams high in the inky sky. The apartment is blanketed by darkness, cautiously all lights are off. Chaos ensues, your heart lurches at the muffled vomiting, and whimpers from the bedroom down the hall. Your fingers tighten around the bucket, clutching as the plastic digs into your palm.

Two chilled soaked rags hang limply over your forearm. Breathless as your footfalls dash against the carpeting, bolting through the room to see Mike slumped-over the edge of the bed, his legs tangled in wrinkled sheets. Drenched sweat soaks through two thick pillows --- now a bit flat, and wet --- blankets strewn around by fits of rage or Mike crying that his skin is too boiling hot.

A lone lit lamp illuminates the room into a dim dewey yellow flourish --- an excess of light hurts Mike’s eyes, and gives him a migraine. The bulb emitting makes his entire body shine by the sheen of sweat, shivering, and groans of your name slips from his quivering pink lips. Half of his body leaning over the mattress, his trembling fingers shakingly gripping the carpeted flooring, as if he was trying to crawl his way out of bed. “I’m here, Mikey. I’m here.” A broken sob escapes your lips, as you gently fall on your knees beside him.

Tears break its watery shield, and collide down your cheeks to see Mike crumble. Drool pooling from his mouth, and puke residue sits at the corner of his lips.

His eyes pinching shut-tight, crying at the pain, you shushing him as you caress his cheek. With all your strength, with gentle hands, you push Mike over on his back, guilt coiling in the pit of your belly at him moaning. Your hands sliding underneath his armpits, you maneuver him -- twisting his torso, and legs so his body can lay horizontally on the bed.

“I’m sorry, baby.” Mike croaks, his voice was hoarse, and raw. You bundle a bit of your nightie in your hand, to wipe his mouth --- it didn’t matter, you’ll wash it later.

“It’s okay. No need to apologize.” You stroke your knuckles sweetly against his cheek, reassuring him by touch and voice that you want to be here; to remind him you’re here for the long haul. You kiss the crease between his furrowing brows, then your lips featherily trail upward, and kiss his forehead, with no hesitation to sweat sticking to your mouth.

“You’re still a bit warm, but the fever is going down.” You spoke breathlessly against his skin, your lips tickling his skin. Gingerly laying the rag on his forehead, Mike sighs in relief, his lashes fluttering closed at the cooling sensation surging through his buzzing head.

It’s been four days of Mike going raw cold-turkey. Four days of pure hell for Mike, and four days of pure grief for yourself. In the beginning of this trial, when the drugs began flushing out of his system Mike wasn’t himself --- it was as if he’s a frothing beast scouting for substance. Screaming matches spewing from his irritation, itching between these four walls; Mike resembling a caged animal. Pure rage masking self-hatred; anger at the aches deep in his muscles, pity at that maybe he can’t do this.

To accomplish sobriety. Vomiting with his head limp, and deep in the toilet, hours of crying, and pleas for that one last hit --- Mike screaming for God to end him, and that he doesn’t deserve you.

Cradling him in your arms, rocking him like an infant, as he sputters incoherent cries; speaking in hushed tones in his ear that you love him --- all his flaws, and scars. What provoked his final decision to get clean, and start a new slate for one’s health, life longevity, and to keep your love --- was a discovery he dreamt to have long ago but felt he wasn’t deserving to earn. “I’m sorry --- a-about the ca--r-rpet.” Mike whispers in choppy puffs, whining low. Jesus, this man is in pain, and he’s worried about you being mad at the carpet? You shook your head slightly, gesturing to him that you weren’t mad.

”Don’t apologize for that, it’s nothing. I’ll clean it later.” You spoke in a calm hush, as you placed the bucket on the floor, next to his bedside. Your hand delicately pad against the clammy biceps with one rag, testing his bodily temperature, taking the remaining rag off of your slightly cold-numbing skin.

You kiss the corner of his brow, as you rub down his chest with the crisp rag, his lips part as an airy breath laced with deep relief escapes; as the refreshing fabric graces his flesh.

His chest hair swirled a bit under the comforting circular motions. Admiring his body, your eyes trace over every ink stroke of his tattoos adorning him. Sheen of water linger as you soothe Mike, silently reciting the Buddhist quote on his chest. Through the rag, you trace the designs of his tattoos by the tips of your fingers --- soft as petals.

Your hand travels the rag downward his torso to dull the slight overheating. Mike hums lowly with his eyes laxly closed shut, his breathing now ceasing into an easy rhythm. Memories begin flooding Mike’s head, as his breathing relaxes steadily. Recollections of how Mike and yourself met years prior --- four years to be exact --- at the hospital you work at.

It was a dark cloudy day, the outside world drenched with heavy pouring rain; the atmosphere was thick with dread, and scented with antiseptic. Sniveling, and irritated with a forthcoming migraine, the flickering lightening tube hovering above him was like a menacing tick, making him twitch internally; as he laid in the hospital bed. Balling the white blue-polka dotted hospital gown into his fists, the fabric bundling between his fingers. Mike was silent, as he scanned his environment motionlessly.

Accidental overdose is the verdict. Sunken eyes with lavender hues, as the mulling cadence of ringing phones, bustling chatter of nurses, and squeaking footfalls of passing doctors flood the hallways. A click of the door opening, and in all your glory, your hair tied in a bun with a few curls straying, wearing a purple nurse uniform, a clipboard clutched in your palm, Nike sneakers for comfort --- being on your feet all day --- and a name tag boldly showcasing your printed name.

In your palm, are clear bags of his folded clothing, and shoes. Nicely you place the bags at the edge of the bed near Mike’s feet. “Hello Mr. Weiss. How are you feeling right now?” A melodic timbre that soothed Mike, lulling his weary mind to a blissful state.

The concern didn’t go unnoticed, how you worded your question in the namesake of professionalism, and humane authenticity. _‘Right now?’_ Usually people would ask how he’s feeling as if he wasn’t struggling prior with the question, _‘How are you today?’_ and his usual response would be, _‘Shitty.’_ sealed with a somber shit-eating grin, but you asked how he’s feeling right now, so you can help him, not analyze him.

You didn’t sound fake, nor condescending. Usually a lot of medical staff didn’t have much regard for addicts, nor at least a speck of pity or sympathy. Mike’s tongue was heavy, struggling a little to speak up. Gaping his mouth open and closed, like a mindless goldfish. You peeked over your clipboard, with a sweet arched brow, giggling lowly to yourself --- your brown hues sparkling in amusement.

It was a tiring day, so to see this man stammering over his words was beyond cute, and the highlight of your day. “Are you okay?” You asked with a small curling smile, hiding your snickering behind the clipboard, with only musing eyes squinting in giggles appearing. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m actually better now.” Mike perked up, coughing a bit as his voice was hoarse, bashful, and his pale cheeks dusting pink. _Jesus, what’s wrong with me? Why in the fuck am I floundering? Get a grip, Mike!_ Mike never stuttered around women, always flirtatious. This was new for him.

“That’s good. How is your body feeling after the sedatives? Any discomfort right now?” Your soft voice interrupted his rampant thoughts. “Just a bit groggy, but what else is new?” Mike humorlessly chuckles, as he shamelessly eyes your body. You notice him checking you out, but you elect to ignore him with a warm smile — but you couldn’t deny, you’re silently enjoying his wordless flirtation; despite your fatigued stature, this man still saw attraction to you.

“I promise it’ll pass. Just get some rest, and stay hydrated.” With a flick of your carmine painted nails, you smoothly perked the clipboard on your waist as you unlatched the metal clip, retrieving a few handbills. “Here I have chosen a few pamphlets for rehab centers, and a few numbers for therapy agencies.”

“I don’t need those.” Mike pushed your out-stretched hand gently away. You arched your brow at him, clicking your tongue at his ignorance, “And why don’t you need them?” You inquire kindly, a cautious tone; not wanting to release this man from the hospital’s care, just to snort and shoot up into an early grave.

“Listen, I can tell you’re sweet. Too sweet for someone like me to be concerned with. I’ve tried to get clean, and it never works. It’s just not for me.” Mike hastily sits up, slinging his legs over the bed, flinging the thin blanket off of him, “It’s not worth it.” He mutters under his breath. You were entirely taken back, wincing at how low he talks of himself. Intently watching this man hastily open the bags to get his clothes, the edge of his jaw pinched pink --- like ripe warm peaches. Was it due to embarrassment?

You place the papers on the bed, as you walk more closely to him. “You are worth it.” You place his cold hands into yours, cupping as if you’re cradling. Trying to get to his eye-level, make him see that you were serious. He doesn’t dare to glance your way, “Doesn’t matter.” Mike insists, slowly seizing his hands from your grasp, "Why bother trying only to fail? And then disappoint everyone all over again?” His nose was flaring, not wanting to lash his tongue at you, just at the idea of his addictions being the topic of discussion irks him. It’s not that he doesn’t want help … it’s that hopeless sinking feeling, that he’s just incurable. A burden. A problem, masking pain with sarcasm and substance to numb it all. A demon clawing at his shoulder, spitting self-hate in his ear. You’re just not worth the trouble, Mike.

As he stood up from the bed, stretching out his shirt, he noticed from the corner of his eye that you were staring at him worriedly. On instinct, pulling the mask down to cover his anguish once more. “Wanna help me get dressed, sweetheart?” A curling faux self-confident smirk that was forced, you sniff out like a bloodhound. You immediately caught on the familiar behavior, a usual route for patients to cope out with defense mechanisms. You saw this tactic day in and day out. But more importantly, it’s one you use too well. “It may not feel like it now, but it’s not impossible. You’re not the first patient I had who felt this way.” You spoke with conviction, ignoring the insistent words ushered by doctors from the past that were ringing at the back of your head, _you can't help someone if they don’t want to get help._ It’s not a martyr shtick, nor a God complex --- but how Mike looked so distressed and sickly as he was pulled in the hospital on the stretcher pained you straight in the heart, parallel to many others before.

“You never know if you don’t try.” You perk your hands on your hips, with an insisting stance. It wasn’t pushy, but Mike could tell you weren’t going to back down. How you stood firmly with the hands perched on your curvous hips that strained subtly against the cotton uniform --- it was hot, how you stood your ground to him, yet no insulting persistence. Your bubble cheeks scrunching up so cutely. Mike just couldn’t help but be turned on, maybe it's your caring nature mixing into it. Mike breathed through his nose, his head hung low, his hands sinking into the mattress. A sign of defeat, not entirely submitting, but how your words were honeyed with sterling sweetness got him to halt, and process how his life led up to here. He glimpses through his long pretty lashes, “Alright --” He cheekily scans your name-tag, pretending he didn’t already memorized it from the moment you walked in. “Y/n. I’ll go. You’re pretty convincing. Maybe you should have been a lawyer too.”

“Oh --- you’re a lawyer, huh?”

“An unlikable one to be exact.”

You suck your teeth teasingly, “I highly doubt that. You seem likeable to me.” You pucker your bee-stung lips with jovial tease, as you tug on the curtain surrounding his bed to offer privacy, his eyes zero on your soft lips that glisten with Chapstick sheen, his arms mid-frozen holding onto his articles of clothing. “Now get dressed, and we’ll get you out of here.” You chuckle, only the shadow of your stihollute appears. Mike chuckles to himself, a little shake of his head, he liked you from the very start.

You knew the circumstances of dating an addict, from day one you knew the weight of his demons Mike carried on his back. He laid all his cards on the table, and you leaped into this life with him head-first. But how could you not fall for him? His charm, his blunt wit, his intelligence, his kindness and that beautiful face? Only a fool would be blind not to be swooned off their feet for the one and only Mike Weiss. After the first -- rather intense --- first meeting, it was definitely not the last encounter for Mike and yourself. After agreeing to go to a rehab program, Mike flirted with you immensely; along with requesting for you to accompany him on his first day. “For moral support.” he shrugged, a flirtatious smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His first day was stoic, but with hushed side-commentary, and sly remarks. Muffling your laughter, you would poke his ribs, silently telling him to knock it off. It didn’t take long for an unusual friendship to develop. You really didn’t see it coming, and if Mike was to be honest, he didn’t either.

The realization of deep love was agnate to a love-drunk punch to the heart. Days blurring into weeks into months with good morning and goodnight calls, late night conversations - those were the heart-shattering times. It was difficult for Mike to open up his layers, bottling his hurt inside to the point of shaking sobs at 3 am, clutching the phone. Choppy incoherent words, spurts of feeling worthless. It began with you two having brunch which then led into dinner dates. Soon trust was earned, and you began hanging out at his house or your apartment. A nurturing nurse and a sardonic lawyer becoming friends--his dry humor doesn’t rub you the wrong way, or how you don’t see it as obnoxious.

“Later when you take a shower, I’ll get you fresh sheets.” You murmur sweetly, as you finished massaging him. Mike slowly peels his eyes open, hooded and squinting. Your voice is silvery to his ears, it always appeases his darkest times --- like that hopeful light at the end of the tunnel. Silently his eyes raked over your body, your hushed voice brought him back to reality. As he soaked in your appearance, Mike couldn’t stomach how tired you were, your eyes were droopy, your curls sloppily disarrayed. As his eyes traveled from your exhausted face to your breasts that swelled over the past weeks to the ample bump protruding against your nightie.

Now entering into your second trimester.

Mike began silently crying, pinching his eyes shut as lone tears spilled down his cheeks. “Don’t cry, baby. We’re getting through this, I’m so proud of you.” You kiss his wet cheeks, not minding the salty tears that kiss his eyes. Nimble sweet kisses, and cooing. You knew how hard he was working to get sober. “You don’t need this shit.” Mike croaked, not daring to open his eyes, and see the pity in yours. “Stop that. I love you, I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here with you.” You caress his cheeks by the gentle graze of your knuckles, shushing him. Lulling him to calm down from a pending panic attack. You soft humming quills him, with only a sniffle here and there. You kiss the tip of his nose. “I love you.” Mike mutters under his breath. You giggle under your breath, feeling a bit bashful --- how can he make you so shy even after three years together? You snivel a bit, biting back a sheen of tears, “And I love you too.” You’ll never get tired of saying that.

It’s been a long road, filled with bumps and turbulence. Many women would have left a long time ago, abandoning Mike at his lowest, but you just couldn’t. You’re too addicted to Mike, from the taste of him, to his scent, to the feel of his skin. His sharp tongue, and his humanity. There was a moment in this journey that almost halted this life together, where you both had to address every bleeding crevice. It was a toxic mixture of your denial, and Mike’s instinct to push anyone close to him away. It’s not that you didn’t want to help Mike, or face reality --- you were afraid. Scared that Mike was hurting himself, and all the progress you both built together was deteriorating at the seams, but then his honeyed words of promises of getting better would wrap your head in a rose-tinted daze. Mike wasn’t trying to convince you, but himself. Just to chip off on the drugs, to keep himself afloat --- that this time it’ll be okay. He can balance his sanity, and his urges of substance that makes him feel ‘whole’. But that was just a temporary moment of brief delusion.

It was about three months ago, your shift at work was a tiresome blur, bustling on auto-pilot. The soles of your feet were aching, the nape of your back was droning in a dull pinch, and your eyes were slightly burning. Your worn body was screaming, and yearning for the comfort of your soft bed, and just to cuddle in Mike’s arms. But there was a sense of … queasiness yet gleeful. For days on end, you were puking in the early hours of the morning, your head hanging in the toilet. Waves of nausea, and finally, the nail in the coffin, you realized that your period was five weeks late. A hunch was hovering over your head, like a burning bright bulb. Finally, biting the bullet, and putting on your big girl pants, during a lunch break, you took a blood-test, and sent a cup of your urine to the labs for testing. Once the results came back to you a few days later, you were speechless for the remainder of the day. You were weary with worry, unable to conjure the words to form the discovery of yours. As you parked the car in-front of the house, cutting the engine off with the flick of your wrist, snatching the keys.

Living with Mike has become a better part of your life, coming home to a person who loves you, and who would hold you, holding them. Grounding yourself back to earth in warmth, blending into one, melting your worldly problems away. Reminding that you’re not alone. With a groan, you weaved out of the car, locking it, and trekked up the walkway to the porch. Arching your arm, as your open-palm was rubbing your tail-bone as you waltzed to the front-door, thanking God and his angels that you were able to leave work early. Dunking your hand in your bag, fumbling for your house-keys, mumbling under your breath as you blearily tried to conduct the proper way to tell Mike the truth, antsy and yet giddy at the toes --- to tell him you’re pregnant. You always wanted a family, but over the years, the desired fantasy was slowly being strangled with dwindling hope, never really connecting to any soul --- until now, with Mike.

Yawning mindlessly, you inserted a key into the lock, twisting, and opening the door. “Mike, I’m home. I have something to tell you—” A cheery tone falters into silence. Your foggy haze of exhaustion was smacked off your face, as you almost nearly stumbled off your own feet. Prejuticle vomit bubbling at the back of your throat, as startled eyes all look into you, you felt like a trespasser in your own home. Witnessing a mass of people seated in your living room, snorting lines off the now stained and scratched coffee glass table, startled as they drink heavily and sloppily gulps liquor, as fogs of nicotine floods the air — staring at you with wide eyes. Rooted in the middle sector of the couch, eyes bulging with fear, hot under the collar, was Mike himself, sniffling back remnants of coke deep into his nostrils, bare-chested in his red suspenders, and dress pants.

“That’s just great.” You mutter under your breath, a cracked sigh of breath; your jaw clicking to the side, Mike knows that tic very well. Your arms fall limply to your waist, as a gesture of defeat. You walk away, exhaustion setting and resting in your bones, as your feet guide you upstairs. Begrudgingly so, an unbearable itch at the back of your throat, dying to just scream on the top of your lungs. Scream and cry. You can faintly hear Mike alert his friends to pack and go, scuffling of footfalls and inebriated murmuring begin to flow out of the house. A few chuckles and finally …. it was silent, with the slam of the front door the only indicator that it’s just you and Mike — finally alone.

Fidgety fingers nearly tear the fabric off of you, tugging it off your body button by button with an edge of boiling rage, and a sheen of tears burning at the brim of your eyes. All the joy slowly zaps slowly out of your pores, now a dreary sadness now weighs on your shoulders. _Have I not done enough? To help Mike? Maybe my help wasn’t enough? Maybe his pain is too deep-rooted in him, maybe he has to push himself first to make the first move for recovery? Has he been lying all this time? Maybe he’s never been sober during the entire duration of the relationship?_ You suspected it, felt the energy was off for quite some time, and yet you decided to play the love-sick fool dance the dance of denial. A watery huff of a sigh.

A dulling pain begins to throb and engulf your skull, an impending migraine just beyond the horizon. Clenching your jaw, nearly on the brink of grinding your teeth. A somber treading up the stairs looms near the bedroom, as you strip. Dreading on what’s to come next, Mike was slowly walking to the bedroom, fearing a fight breaking out, worried that you’re going to leave him once and for all. _But isn’t that what you wanted? For her to realize that you’re not good enough?_ Mike belittles and berates himself, as he is ever so delaying his steps. Counting his steps like the sheeps to lull him at night, as he tries to collect his thoughts, already his tongue heavy with ale, ready to slur an apology. Trepidation beams at his brow, fearing the worse to come, that you’ll finally leave him. His open-palm collides silently against the bedroom door, right on cue when he’s ready to push, he hears sniffles.

Internally wincing at your pain, but like a bandage, he’s gotta rip it off. Grovel on his knees, if he has to, kiss your feet like a goddess worshipped at an alter — anything for you not to hate him. Bringing strangers - swirly acquaintances - into your shared home, breaking your trust. A creak of the hinges alerts you. Quickly wiping away your teary cheeks, you stand at your night-stand in nothing but your panties, straightening your hunched over form as you were sobbing into your folded clothes. With a firm shove of the drawer, you close it, gripping your nightie in one hand, and the other clenching into a fist that hovers over your heart. Trying to level your breathing, not wanting to scare off Mike, you know that he’s hurting too. You can feel his stare burning holes in the back of your skull. “Mike, I’m just going to take a shower and head off to bed.” You turn your body around, now facing his mopey face, wanting desperately to just kiss him, and hug him. “I suggest putting a bottle of water at the night-stand to keep hydrated throughout the night, and a bucket to be precautious.” You force a forlorn smile, as you place the nightie on the bed.

Uncertain feet tap against the flooring, you walk hesitatingly at first, towards Mike, placing your palm on his shoulder, your thumb rubbing against his skin. A kiss on his lips, ever so featherily soft. “I’m not mad. We’ll get through this.” You rub the tip of your nose against his sweetly. Mike knows you’re not mad, it’s beyond that. Mad is just scratching the surface, his heart aches to see your eyes watery, and nearly splotchy pink at the rims. “I hate it when you do that.” Mike’s hoarse voice makes you flinch, as if it grated against your ears. “Excuse me?” Your nose scrunches up, as your cheeks puff out. “Hate what exactly, Mike? Me supporting you bothers you?” You move away from him, sniffing back your tears, shaking a little at the hands, the back of your knees collide against the bed, softly thudding yourself against the mattress. “No. You pretending you’re not mad. Pretending that everything is okay.” His nose flares, his chest heaving.

Wanting to scream, for you to scream. Just let it all go. Too much is bottling like a ticking time bomb. “But I’m not mad.” You hiss through your teeth. “Yes the fuck you are! Admit it! Stop acting like a martyr for one moment, and just say it! Say how you really feel! Say I’m a junkie!”

“Stop it, Mike! You’re just a little …” You trail off, biting your tongue, before anything stupid or insensitive spills out. Forbidding any word to spew out, and hurt him. No matter how infuriated you are, you just couldn’t lash out at him. “Like what? Fucked up? News flash, Y/n, I’m fucked up. Stop acting as if you can fix me! You act like I can just pick up my mistakes and move along.” Mike shouts, now pacing, practically burning a hole in the carpeting.

“Shut up! I was going to say high!” You hastily stand up to your feet, “And I’m so fucking sorry, that me loving you is a fucking problem. That I see you as you are, a fucking human being, not some addict. Because that’s not what defines you, but you want it to be. You can’t stand to see yourself as anything but.” You cry, your hands not knowing where to put them at, just shaking in mid-air. “That’s fucking bullshit!” Mike barks in your face, tears ready to fall down his stubbled cheeks. “No it’s not!” You stomp your foot, your toes curling into the carpet. “You refuse to let me in! Instead you seek comfort in strangers, come together to get high, and fuck it all!” Your hand weaves in the air, angrily gesturing; harshly slamming against your thigh.

“You don’t even fucking know me!” By now, his nose is connected to yours. He doesn’t know why he’s screaming at you, lashing you with his insecurities, but how you just won’t admit that this isn’t helping you either. You’re hurting too. Jesus, his brain is muddled. Fried. He wants to cry, and beg your forgiveness for what he has said, fall to his knees and just hold you, but instead, here he is, shouting at you. He doesn’t feel like a man, he feels lower than dirt. “Then let me get to know you! You only feed me scraps, thinking that can subdue me, I want you to open up to me!” “Why? So you can get some self-satisfaction by helping a charity case?” Mike growled, it was a watery one. “I told you from day one, I’m not worth it!” Mike thrashes trinkets off the drawer with his hand, products and little figurines collide on the floor with a thud, “You don’t need this shit! You don’t need me!” Mike screams on the top of his lungs, now hunching over, falling on his knees, as you sink into yourself; covering your mouth from sobbing too loud. Have you been coming off as pretentious? Pushing him to keep positive, kind affirmations every-day, reminding him to eat healthy, telling him he’s great no matter what, hovering over him to keep sober? Hovering too much? Pushing too hard? But you couldn’t help it … you love him too much.

“But I need you.” It was a pitiful sob, his arched spine quivering, his shoulders tense, his fingers digging into the cotton fibers. Slowly, you kneel down, your fingers tentatively rub between his shoulder blades; Mike savoring the touch of your finger tips against his clammy skin. Seconds felt like minutes, biting your lip as you kept rubbing and soothing him, it always helped him calm down. Finally he spoke up, and what he will say will break your heart, “Do you know how it feels to wish for death every day?” Mike choked on a sob, his head bobs a bit to sniffle. Your breath hitches in your throat. “Baby …” You cry, finally a heavy waterfall crashes down.

Holding him, your chest against his sculpted back, “Please talk to me. I don’t want to lose you.” Wet little kisses on him, mumbling, “Please tell me.” Fresh tears water his back. “I love you too much to pull you down. To my own hell. It’s not right. You’re too pure.” Mike picks his head up, your hands cup his cheeks. Your brows furrowing, shaking your head at him. “I need you.” You whispered. “I will go to bat in Hell, for you. Sock Satan in the mouth if I have too.” You chuckle, and luckily, he chuckles too with that cute signature Weiss smirk. “I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it. I just …” Mike hung his head, sighing. Hating that he lied for months, he was doing good, he was clean for a period of time.

But he got hit with a big case, and the stress got too much. Drugs were easier than asking for help. “Then why did you keep pushing me away?” You tilted your head, to manage eye contact. You never wanted to push him too hard just to open up to you. Knowing that it only could make him crawl deep inside himself. “Because I couldn’t bear the idea of you choosing to stay with me out of pity or guilt.” Mike rubs his cheek against yours, “I never had anyone love me, never held anything good.” Mike blubbered. “I love you for you. Flaws and all. I’m here for the long haul.” Blinking back wet lashes, you lean in more against his face, with a gentle squeeze of his cheeks in the cusp of your hands. “I love you too.” It was simply sweet. Shy, even.

Mike nudges his face against yours, his lips trailing down your pulse point. Your ultimate weakness. Mike hedges himself at the knees, as he engulfs your nude body in his arms; as you wrap your arms around his neck. You kiss the joint of his jaw, and with ease, Mike lifts you by his palms on your ass, standing upward with you in his grasp. “Let me take care of you.” You whisper in his ear, “Come take a shower with me.” Caressing your face against his, Mike nodded silently.

With quiet steps, and two hearts beating against one, Mike waltzes into the bathroom. With his fore-arm holding you by the bum, his free hand unzipped himself, the click of his zipper made you quiver underneath your skin. His enchanting warmth shoved your secret in the back burner of your mind, but the journey of it twisting and morphing made you worried — slowly your concern of the possibility of losing the father of your unborn baby was temporarily replaced with touch starvation. Like a balm to a gashing wound. It was there but subtle, and quiet. Awaiting it’s time to arise at an unexpecting time, to snatch your heart and squeeze. The shower was warm and inviting, it helped a little clear Mike’s stuffy sinuses. Your fingers twirling and massaging in Mike’s chest hair, as you both cling onto each other as a life-line. Mike kissed the middle of your brows, as his hands were unwavering from your body.

Silence --- the type that doesn’t need to be filled with unnecessary chatter --- comfortable --- speaking louder than words. His tears blending into the spraying water, and his small tremors were the signs that he was genuinely sorry; and with open arms, you forgive him. Bathing each other has always been a favorite of yours, so intimate, the soapy sensation of wet skin, the intense eye contact — how perfectly his forehead connects with yours. How soft your touch is against his sex, coddling and cleaning him with care and precision.

Mike rubs the soapy sponge against the terrain of your shoulder blades, trailing down the arch of your spine leaving electric kisses down your spine. A breathy gasp at this welcoming intrusion of Mike seeping the sponge between your asscheeks. Small lathery cadence intermixing with your wanton moans, as your fingernails scratch slightly against Mike’s back. Mike groaned, it felt so good — the smooth and slippery scratches made him hiss, it was a good pinch of pain. Cheeky as ever, you slipped your hands to cup his his toned ass; Mike chuckled, murmuring under his breath, his pink lips against your soaked dome, “ _Greedy brat._ ” This wasn’t an escape from your issues, clearly both of you need to open the air to discuss your emotions --- a needed shower for two was a nice reprieve from the emotional turmoil.

To clear your heads.

After the shower, and moisturizing, helping Mike into bed, you were braiding your hair, but you were unusually silent. It was time to tell him … now or never. His finger curls against your bare back, fiddling with the thin silk straps against his tips. You turn your face, your palm holding his fingers. “Tell me what’s on your mind.” Mike spoke quietly, as he laid his back against the headboard. His twirling fingers put you a little ease, but it’s not enough, you have to speak up.

“I have to tell you something …” You trail off, your tone puts him at unease. Your gaze is lowered, Mike shifts his hand away, and perks it underneath your chin. Making you look at him, with a calm poker-face, Mike insists you, with the soft whisper of your name. Biting your lower lip, his thumb quickly tugging it down. “I’m — I’m pregnant.” Wide eyes gawk into Mike’s own widen orbs, wide as dinner plates. His breathing got heavy, and soon choppy. You quickly put your hand over his heart, shushing him. “It’s going to be okay. Baby, it’s going to be okay.” A lone tear trails down your cheek, thinking of the worst, you believe Mike is going to bolt out of your life out of fear. “Is that … ” Mike swallows, “Is that what you wanted to tell me earlier?” His chin wobbles, as you nod, unable to speak. His eyes lower to your flat tummy, hesitantly he cups your belly.

His fingers caressing the silk clad skin, he began to cry. Just unraveling in your hold. That night, you held him tight, and he clung to you tightly; his head laid on your stomach, his tears shedding against your nightie. Mike felt …. scared. Throughout the night, he would mumble that he wasn’t good dad material, but you always tell him, “You’re going to be great.”

That was four months ago, and throughout those four months, Mike was up and down, on and off of drugs, but finally … he stopped. He cried when he first heard your baby’s heartbeat, that’s when he began his rocky path back to sobriety. Four months of self-hate, sometimes he would leave his journals open for you to read, he couldn’t properly express himself verbally, but in writing, he said it all. He was afraid of the rehab campus’, he preferred your expertise and comfort to nurse him back. But he couldn’t do this to you, your pregnancy shouldn’t be a stressful one. He knows what he must do.

Mike opened his eyes once more, coming back to reality. Four months and he’s still here. “I’m ready.” His voice was small, yet confident. As if a surge of power consumed his body. His eyes shine with determination. You were taken back, “Ready for what?” You ask nervously. You bite down on your bottom lip, a little habit you have yet to kick, you would bite your lip till it cracked and bleed. “To go back to rehab. I gotta do this right.” You hold back a sob, kissing his forehead.

“I want to do right for our baby.” Mike weakly smiles, you smile back. You can already envision your shared future, how Mike will protect and love your child. Happy and healthy, no longer fearing the shadow of death lingering near him.

“This baby is so lucky to have you as their daddy.” With the tips of your fingers, grazing his jaw, you lean down for a kiss. It’s a wispy yet passionate kiss. Sending electric waves down Mike’s spine. “God, I love you.” Mike mumbles against your lips.

Mike Weiss, lawyer, ex-addict, a lover and a father.

Oh, how lucky you are to have him, and how blessed he feels to have you.


End file.
